She had changed to a dress of fine blue lawn that suited her well, even though it was three seasons out of date. The fine chestnut hair, brushed with flinty determination until her head hurt, shown with coppery lights. The least evidence of the barnyard disaster had been eradicated. Her hair was pulled back in a velvet ribbon that would have lent a gentle softness to her face had she not glared so fiercely into the glass.

"Scrubbing your cheeks pink, Catherine? Whatever are you about? And why ever are you wearing your best dress?" A flounce of ruffle and pink dimity bounced into the tiny room. The young lady's expression of curiosity turned sharp as she exclaimed, "Company! Of course! I knew I heard voices."

"Stop this instant." Only Catherine's tone of command stopped her younger sister from running down the stairs.

"Allison, you will behave like a lady. Father entertains a gentleman regarding business and it will not do to interrupt them. Perhaps if you can be patient we will join them for tea presently. And I was not scrubbing my cheeks to give them color. I was attempting to erase the effects of Randolph and Frederick's latest caprice. Here, come and help me."

Allison's voice became coaxing as she accepted the damp cloth from her sister and moved with her to the window. "Tell me Cath, who is it? You never dress for the gentlemen who come from the Royal Academy, or for the Squire either." With a gentle finger she raised her sister's chin to the light and softly rubbed at the smudged cheek. "And just look--you've used the ribbon Father bought you Easter. I know you were saving it for an occasion. Is the gentleman truly fine? Is he young? Is he tall and oh, is he the very top of the trees?"

The pink in Catherine's cheek owed nothing to scrubbing as she snatched the cloth away and cast a baleful eye on the eager young face before her. "Really, Allison! How rag-mannered a young woman you've become. A lady of sixteen does not ask personal questions about a gentleman's appearance. The gentleman is here to discuss family business and neither his dress nor his age is fit subject for a lady's speculation. And above all, his physique is, well, it is not a fit subject." Allison was much too keen to miss that slight catch in her sister's voice in reference to the mysterious gentleman's appearance, but the reference to family prodded her curiosity beyond its control.

"Family business, Catherine? We have no family."

"Nonsense. Of course we have family. There is your cousin, Charles, the Duke of Murnane."

"I know who Charles is, for all the good his consequence does us here at Songbird Cottage. Not that I care," she added quickly at the brief flicker of pain on her sister's face, "about any of them. They have taken no interest in us these years and I take no interest in them." Her curls bounced from the shake of finality she gave her words.

"Our visitor is your cousin's maternal uncle."

"Chadbourne? Here? Why ever didn't you say so right away?" Allison's eager excitement put to lie her recent avowal of disinterest. "A veritable Corinthian, a member of the very highest circles of the ton, here, in our own home! How wonderful!" She trilled over her departing shoulder, "Did he drive a high perched phaeton? He is a famous whip you know. Utterly famous. Roselyn Grovener told me his cattle is the envy of all the younger gentlemen and Roselyn says he has broken so many hearts, mamas will not let their daughters even think of trying to fix his interest. The Unattainable. That's what..."

"Allison, really, do stop this instant before you humiliate Father with your poor manners." At the thought of her own recent encounter with His Lordship, Catherine's color deepened. "Come compose yourself and we will go see if the gentlemen are ready to take their tea."

Allison's changeable face was immediately repentant. "I'm sorry, Catherine, I don't mean to be so poorly behaved. It is just that we have so few visitors, and they are never eligible men. I do so want to meet a great London gentleman. I love our home, truly I do, but sometimes I wish for something new."

"Well, let's finish tidying up, and perhaps you'll get your wish." Catherine helped her younger sister arrange her hair, thinking as she did how little "tidying" Allison needed to be a vision of delicate blond loveliness. She thought, not for the first time, what a pity it was that this diamond would not have her season, but was left buried in the country. Allison, ever sensitive, watched the grim conflict on her sister's face and her voice, soothing, said, "Catherine, if this man makes you unhappy, we don't need to go down."

A fierce hug crushed Allison and a misty Catherine declared firmly, "You are blessed with a sweet nature to match your loveliness. Of course, we'll go down. It wouldn't do not to entertain our guest properly."

Songbird Cottage's upper stories were blessed with narrow passages. The ladies turned down an angular hall and were already on the stairs before they heard the sharp, quarreling voices.

"I will not be told what to do in my own house."

"Of course, you may order your own house, but damn it man, I expected more sense of family honor from you. When I saw you last year at Edward's funeral..."

"You saw me?!"

"You took great care to hang in the back of the chapel. I'm sure Sylvia didn't notice. But I did. Your resemblance to Edward was enough to pique my curiosity. Inquiries were easy. I assumed that a man who attends the funeral of a brother whom he hasn't seen in seventeen years is a man with a well-developed sense of the obligations due his name."

"Ha! Then you're well out of it. It was Catherine made me go. Said family is family, and I owed a brother that much. Was right, too. Gel usually is. But I didn't want to, not after what he did, not after Mary. Didn't want to at all. Went though but didn't want anyone to see me. Didn't think you did."

"But I did, and apparently I was wrong in my conclusions. You have no sense of family or you wouldn't deny your children the opportunities I've offered."

Allison started, searching Catherine's face for some insight into the "opportunities," but her sister was listening with an enthralled expression. Allison followed Catherine's eyes until they came to rest on a blond locks that had become somewhat disarranged as though a hand had been dragged through them in exasperation.

"You can't let your them grow up wild, buried in the country."

"Insult me in my own home, will ya? Aren't wild. Well brought up. Country's fine for us all. Wouldn't mind some town bronze for 'em all but not without Catherine. That's m'last word, Sir."

"That, Sir, is out of the question."

"Then we have nothing more to say to one another. I best call for your curricle." Arthur Wheatly stepped back into his study to ring for the poor beleaguered footman, who, it the truth be told, was pressed into kitchen service by Mrs. MacLeish.

Chadbourne, retrieving his greatcoat and curly beaver hat from the flustered footman, had his hand already on the door when a soft sound caught his attention. His eyes were drawn to the tiny staircase in the corner and a vision of fair delicacy in pink and white. For a moment his eyes were only for Allison, but as he left his final memory was of the taller, stronger presence behind her and a pair of knowing gray-green eyes, the color of the North Sea, in an intelligent face framed by the loveliest of chestnut hair. His Lordship wasn't sure afterward if those eyes held pity or grief, understanding or condemnation; he was positive that whatever it was, it did not enhance his comfort.

"Allison, see if Mrs. MacLeish needs your assistance with tea." Allison opened her mouth to object but thought better of it. Nor did she give voice to the questions crowding into her head. Years of contending with her older sister had taught her not to confront Catherine when she used that tone of voice. Time enough later for questions, she thought, Catherine will come 'round.

Slowly finishing her descent of the stairs, Allison went to the sidelight and peered out the front door.

"The tea, Allison. Now, please."

Sighing deeply, Allison stole a final glance at the tall figure in a curricle flying down their lane. "But look, Catherine, he is going ever so fast. Such a great whip!"

As Allison spun around she realized Catherine had already stopped listening and had followed her father into the study. Though Allison had an unladylike urge to follow, the door was firmly closed before she had a chance.

"Won't discuss it. Might as well go on with your sister."

"Tell me."

"Won't. Not important." Wheatly began to rearrange the sketches on his worktable.

"Not important? No one in your family has come here ever. He came to ask after Allison and the boys, didn't he?"

"Catherine, look here. Wagtail sketch."

"Don't change the subject, Father. What opportunities was Chadbourne discussing?"

"Can't be right. Wagtail eye bands ain't this wide. And look. You made his head cocked. Don't sit that way."

"Father!"

"Not criticizing, gel. You've the eye to see 'em but the sketches have to be right. Porter wants..."

"Mr. Porter wouldn't know the width of a wagtail's eye band, Father. Publishers just print what we give them." Catherine sighed; when Father wouldn't talk there was no use in pushing, and when his mind was on his ornithological studies, there was no way to distract him. "Mr. Porter wouldn't, but you would. Show me where we need to change it."

Outside the door, Allison gave way to disappointment, as their voices grew quiet. She looked up to see Mrs. MacLeish watching her knowingly from the passageway.

"Did I hear your sister send you to th'kitchen, Miss?" Nodding sadly, Allison followed her toward the dining room.

"Did you see him, Mrs. MacLeish? Wasn't he ever so handsome?"

This elicited little more than a snort. "Handsome is as handsome does, Miss. Fancy lot of them has no place here."

Light from the kitchen window caught the tears on Allison's lashes. "I know. If they have no use for us all, we have no use for them. We don't need a fancy London family that doesn't need us. We have what we need right here. Father is right."

If Mrs. MacLeish was skeptical, she didn't say, but at this display of loyalty her face softened.

"Ice the current buns for me, wrenlet?"

Allison smiled at the old pet name and was soon happily at work on the current buns.

"It is so dreadfully unfair. Catherine is the dearest of sisters and finest of people. I don't see why Father's family won't have her, even if she isn't one of theirs."

"Do you recall your Ma, Miss Allison?"

"Not well. I remember a sweet face. She smelled of violets."

"That she did, Miss. And a finer woman I never hope to meet, Miss. She was all that is good, no matter what folk might say."

Mrs. MacLeish went pink; too much had slipped out.

"But what would folk say? Did they not want Mother as they don't want Catherine?" Allison licked a sticky finger. "Mother was beautiful and..." She stopped with her finger in midair, a startled expression on her face.

"Mind your work, girl." Mrs. MacLeish bustled to her soup pot, putting a period to a conversion rapidly becoming inappropriate.

"MacLeish?" The tone was cajoling and the hands busy. "Tell me about my mother's family. Wasn't she from Scotland?"

"Aye, Scotland. Naught to tell. Mind those buns."

"Was Catherine's father from Scotland also?"

"A body has no time for this blathering. Fetch me those baskets before tea gets cold. And where are those two devil brothers of yours? They're going to miss their tea."

"Do you think Catherine is still angry?"

"Naw, she'll be calmed down by the time she sets the yard in order, you'll see."

They walked a little more slowly, just to be sure, skirting the fence along the main road and coming to rest under an ancient hickory. The sow began to root about next to the fence. The boys lay on their backs, watching the setting sun in the leaves.

"Bet she is. Bet two of Mrs. Mac's sweetbuns she is."

"Aw, Randy, ain't you got bottom? Catherine 'ill turn up sweet. Anyway, Father won't let her do us any real harm. Will he?"

Past experience made it seem unlikely any severe punishment would be forthcoming and the boys perked up somewhat. As they got up, Randy raised his eyes to scan a cloud of dust down by the lane.

"Do you think Mrs. Mac made sweetbuns for tea?"

"Don't know, but I'll race you to see."

"What 'bout the sow."

"She's prob'ly rested now. Let's get her to run." When Freddy reached over to pick up a switch he missed his brother say, "Hey, look at that, it's..."

Whack! Properly applied, a hickory switch has a dramatic effect on a large pig. In this case, the animal in question emitted a loud squeal and lunged forward. Unfortunately, she was facing the fence and plunged through it, destroying the rails and darting into the road.

"Hey, look at that, it's a curricle, a smart 'un. Can you see it fly?"

It was Freddy and Randy who flew then, to avoid lunging hooves and crashing wood. The charging sow had startled the high-strung racing team, causing them to buck and rear and throw the curricle crashing into the tree.

"Who is she to condemn me? She's no better than..." A jolt brought His Lordship to his senses on time to make the turn onto the road. A lesser whip would have overturned his vehicle.

"She's no better than..." He had no real ending to that sentence and the thought made him even angrier. The wind whipping his face from the pace of his horses did nothing to cool his emotions.

He saw little before disaster struck. It was the sounds he remembered later: squealing pig, screaming horses, splintering fence-rails, and the horrible crashing of metal, wood, and bone against a tree. And voices. Odd, he thought, I hear voices. Indrawn breath and voices.

"Mind the horses, Freddy. Get 'em settled. T'other one 'ill come back when he calms down."

"Hush, Randy, look here, look here. Is he dead?"

And then he heard no more.